


To Be His Own Color

by eyesasblackasthevoid



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age - Freeform, F/M, dragon age origins - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesasblackasthevoid/pseuds/eyesasblackasthevoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble fic surrounding a headcanon of mine that Zevran is an artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be His Own Color

Red had always been the color of blood first and foremost in his eyes, he had trouble associating it with anything else. Things full of joy and life could never be red and thus two different colors emerged for him. There was the vibrant crimson of fresh blood pooling from a wound that dulled any other shades of the hue until the color simply washed itself beyond subtlety. All other reds faded into the background, there could be only blood. 

Red had no place in his paintings and surely no place pushing past his lips in the form of wine. He could only drink white, the bitterness of the dry taste some sort of poetic metaphor for his life. The sweetness of red wine was tainted for him. Red was the unnerving reminder that he would never be more than a disposable instrument of fate. 

That was who he was, who he was raised to be, whether he liked it or not, so he opted to learn to enjoy it. To take any small, simple pleasure where he could find it, that was how he’d chosen to live, to cope with the blood on his hands. “They probably had it coming,” was what he consoled himself with, “Some people simply need assassinating.”

Whether he actually believed the things he told himself was something he didn’t dare dwell on. It didn’t do anyone any good for him to spend his free time having a constant crisis of morality. He could be bitter, or he could choose to just take life as it was handed to him. He chose the latter.

And in choosing the latter, he chose to paint and draw, and to tattoo the other assassins in his cell. Art became an escape, a weapon as formidable as any blade. Despite what he told others how he liked being an assassin just fine, he would always rather his hands be stained with charcoal or ink than with blood and regret. 

Those regrets eventually threatened to consume him and the blood he had spilled became a rushing river desperate to pull him under. He was not meant for anything other than to have his own life drown him. And if he was going to drown he was going to choose how, which was what he believed at the time to be the only choice he’d ever have of his own. 

He never expected her. Never expected the mark he threw himself at to spare his life. Never expected her to be so beautiful, a woman to put all his art to shame. He pledged an oath to serve her in return for her mercy, to fight at her side until she no longer wished him to. And for week after week they flirted back and forth, reveling in the distraction from the Blight that each other’s company offered. Three months passed before she finally asked him to her tent. That first night left the both of them confused and feeling like maybe this would become more than a pleasant diversion, but neither would voice that feeling aloud. 

She grew increasingly fond of his tattoos with every night they spent together. They were nothing like the markings she had on her face, the vallaslin. His skin was scars and ink, painful reminders and beauty all gracing the same flesh. This body could only be his, for it greatly mirrored the soul that dwelled within.

She made a habit of absentmindedly tracing the designs with the very tips of her fingers, barely touching him. She had them memorized before long. He relished in her fascination and adored the gentle affection she showed him that he’d never experienced before. 

“Do you think you could give me one?” She asked when he finally brought up her passionate interest in his tattoos. 

“Of course, my dear, but what would you like?”

“Whatever you want to do. I’m sure I’ll love it.”

And there it was: a choice. A simple enough one, but she always gave him choices, a luxury he’d never had before. He couldn’t seem to find the words to let her know how much he appreciated the option of making his own decisions. Never mind that she didn’t give much thought in presenting him with them. 

He spent the following days sketching ideas on the backs of maps whenever he had a moment to spare. It felt good to draw, to be creating art again, art that would forever adorn her skin. He couldn’t believe that she trusted him this much. 

It took four days of sketching before he finally drew up a design he felt was worthy of her. 

“It’s perfect, ma vhenan.” She commented when he presented it to her, an abstract design of a Halla, an animal her kind revered and one she always felt a personal connection to. She hadn’t even suggested the idea, he simply knew her that well. 

“Ma vhenan?” He inquired, unfamiliar with the Elvhen tongue, and she was somewhat embarrassed to realize she had let the weighty term of endearment slip out. 

“It means my heart,” She admitted quietly, unsure of how he’d react. They’d both agreed when they started this that it wasn’t going to be about love. Love was reckless. She of all people knew how much it hurt when love wasn’t enough to protect someone. 

He remained quiet, for the right words evaded him. He set the paper down and kissed her, gently cradling her face in his hands, hoping that said enough. And to her, it said everything. 

That tattoo he gave her that night was the first of many, but it would remain her favourite. By the time a year had past since they met, a couple months after the slaying of the Arch Demon and the ending of the Fifth Blight, her entire back was covered in his art. Somehow, those nights he was armed with needle and ink were more intimate than when they made love.

She loved to lay beside him in camp as he stayed up drawing until he ran out of charcoal and blank pieces of vellum. He missed the embroidered papers he’d spent his coin on back in Antiva City, missed the large canvas boards and rainbows of paints that cluttered his tiny apartment, the one he had shared with Taliesin and Rinna. Which made it the one he could never return to. His life was different now. He wouldn’t give the past a chance to drown him ever again, not when he’d finally dragged himself to the shore and left the rushing current behind. 

The two of them bonded over art, and fell in love on the battlefield. He always rushed to her protection, no matter the possible danger to himself. His oath still stood, and even if he had never made it he would never let any harm befall her. If only she knew exactly how much he meant it whenever he uttered, “I am yours.” 

It happened slowly and then all at once: red became more than blood. It became her lips and the blush of her skin against the chill of the night. It became tending to her wounds instead of inflicting his own. It became the wine she always offered to share with him that he’d always denied himself of before. Red became love.

The color had its own meaning to drown out the symbolism forced upon it by a life that was forced on him. The color was finally its own, as was his life to live.


End file.
